


and if you don't love me now

by grayintogreen



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Destiny, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Character Death, Predestination, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 03:46:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11096235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayintogreen/pseuds/grayintogreen
Summary: "Predestination doesn't mean we don't get choices, it just means that our ending is ordained."Years before they met, the universe gave them signs of what was to come. They just didn't know it.





	and if you don't love me now

He hadn’t wanted to go to his grandfather’s that day. He’d whined the whole way, fidgeting in his seat and complaining about how “Grandpa gets mad if I listen to my music the whole time,” to which his mother only laughed and said that he always got mad at her when she was just a kid with her ear pressed to the radio. And then, to keep her son from using this as an excuse to antagonize his grandfather with his dance moves and all the lyrics to all those songs he didn’t understand and wouldn’t understand until he was older, she added, “I know you think he’s boring, but just take a nature walk with him. Maybe you’ll see some cool animals.”

That was enough to placate him. Peter’s frustration turned to delight at new possibilities, and he all but begged his grandfather to take a walk with him through his property. Despite telling him that all they were likely to see are snakes with as hot as it’s been, the old man had relented, and when Meredith drove off to check herself into the hospital for another round of chemo, her two boys were able to put their mind at ease for a little while.

Peter had walked a quarter mile before he began to get hot and bored and fussy, and the two were prepared to turn back when a breeze kicked up an awful stench. “Smells like something died,” his grandfather muttered, aiming to avoid the area entirely, but Quill’s young eyes spotted movement in the tall grass and he bounded into it, unconcerned with both rotten smell and warnings about snakes.

He only had to go a few feet into the weeds before he found it- an unpleasant tableau of death too obscene for a seven-year-old’s eyes. When his grandfather came up behind him, he quickly yanked him back to block his view of the sight, swearing, despite his promise to Meredith to never say anything worse than a “galldarn” around the boy.

A raccoon must have gotten hit by a car and dragged herself over here to die. All told, the sight could be worse, but it was still Peter’s first encounter with death, and that was something that was bound to become an all-too unpleasant reality for him within a year. For right now, however, he was just a boy seeing a dead animal for the first time, wide-eyed and distressed, but it didn’t hold his attention for long. He _had_ seen movement, and now he heard something too- a high-pitched cry. Ignoring his grandfather telling him to stay back, he followed the cries to their source- a baby raccoon still in the weeds.

This time Peter’s grandfather ran up behind him and yanked him up by his shirt collar before he could try to pick up the fool thing. “Peter! Don’t you touch that thing. It might be sick.”

Peter struggled. “But it’s all alone and it’s mama’s dead! We can’t leave it!”

That must have hit him right in the guilt, because he dropped Peter who began to work off the flannel shirt he’d tied around his waist in the hopes he could coax the shivering, crying baby into it. “I’ll call around. Somebody can probably take it in. But Peter, could you just-”

But Peter wasn’t listening. He’d gathered the furry little bundle up in his shirt and was holding it to his chest while it cried. It hadn’t tried to lash out or bite him yet, so either that kid had a gift or the animal was too weak to put up a fuss. Probably the latter. It was a bit sluggish and its eyes were clouded with dehydration. Had it been left here, it probably wouldn’t have lasted another night, and it wouldn’t be their problem. But it hadn’t planned out like that, and maybe there was something to it.

There was some finagling to be done once they brought the little coon back to the house. He was able to procure some supplies for the night and a promise that someone would come by in the morning to take the baby someplace he could be looked after. Peter seemed convinced that the raccoon would take such a shine to him that it would refuse to go with them, and though his grandfather expected him to get bored and leave him to deal with the task of taking care of the little creature, Peter took to his job with a seriousness that wasn’t common in a boy of seven.

It wasn’t young enough to require constant feeding, but still unweaned and not much bigger than the kittens Sadie Walker’s cat had last year, which was cool, because he'd played with those kittens every afternoon and moped for days when his mother put her foot down about letting him keep one. His grandfather taught him how to hold the bottle, containing an electrolyte mixture to cure his dehydration, and cautioned him against overfeeding. After that, it was a matter of Peter working to earn the creature’s trust.

“I’m sorry your mom’s dead,” he said, sticking his fingers inside the rabbit hutch they’d pulled into the garage to use as a temporary shelter for their new friend (whom Peter had decided to name “Bandit,” and not because of his mask, but because he looked a little like Burt Reynolds- he was quick to tell his grandpa that). Bandit immediately tried to suck on them, and Peter allowed it, only flinching a little when its little teeth grazed his finger a bit too hard. 

He pulled his hand away and Bandit began to try to scale the mesh of the hutch, eyes never leaving Peter. Checking to see if his grandfather was close by (he’d told him not to handle the raccoon too much between feedings), he lifted the lid and gently scooped him out. There was some caterwauling to contend with and Peter desperately shushed him, expecting to see his grandfather coming to the screen door to scold him, but he must not have heard. Bandit’s wails gave way to whimpering grunts and Peter pulled the baby animal close to his chest so it could hear his heartbeat.

“My mom does that when I’m scared, but she can’t do that for me right now, so I’m gonna do it for you, okay?” The raccoon kit kneaded his arm in response. “We don’t have to feel bad about our moms or feel scared ‘cause we got each other.”

Though he had to eventually put Bandit back, he begged his grandfather to let him sleep in the garage with the hutch and despite the amount of grumbling about spiders and the like, he gave in to that, just as he had everything else that day. Peter had no idea what had really secured him all these victories, but he took them, and that night he curled up in a sleeping bag beside the rabbit hutch and talked to Bandit all night about his mom and everything that was going on.

And when the vet came to pick the kit up the next morning, Peter cried just as much as the little raccoon did when it was transferred from a hutch to a pet carrier in her car, and driven off to somewhere it could grow up the way a young raccoon was supposed to, and no amount of firm but gentle discussion about a wild animal’s place could console him.

 

\---

 

He understood more than they gave him credit for.

He was still young, but the “mutagens” (a word thrown around so much, he had gleaned its meaning) had worked by leaps and bounds to improve his cognition (another word thrown around). They pointed at charts and scans when he was seated on the table being examined and measured and talked as if he couldn’t pick up on what they were saying.

But he could. 

They gave him puzzles and games to test his dexterity (the surgeries on his hands and feet were minor compared to what would happen in the future), and memorization games to test his knowledge. They’d implanted something in his throat that translated his vocalizations to noises like they made, and he knew he didn’t like it, because now when he cried at night to call for his mother, he didn’t recognize the sounds and neither could she if any of the rows upon rows of cages around his were hers.

They knew he was clever, but they assumed all the cleverness stayed neatly within the boundaries of what they taught him (little did they know- little did they care). He didn’t know what to do with all this information, but he held it inside him as if it would somehow be valuable later- a sort of hoarding instinct only _mental_ , rather than physical.

And then, one day, curiosity took over. 

A “timetable had been moved up,” one of _them_ was saying, as they carried him in their tight hands, thick gloves protecting them from his need to bite. They placed him on a table, pulled him up on his hind legs and began measuring the length of his arms and chest. They were speaking new words and phrases he hadn’t yet heard before and couldn’t logically parse out by context, though he tried to figure it out. “How much more do you think it’ll grow by next cycle?” “Well, we can’t install the sternum until then.” “Might wanna get the castration over and done with. If he’s this mean now, wait until-”

They droned on and he grew bored with their talk. They always talked about him like he couldn’t hear and couldn’t question their words, even if he never _did_ ask questions. He didn’t know what they’d do if they knew he was paying attention. Take his voice away? That wouldn’t be so bad.

Take his cognizance away? That would be unbearable.

But as they spoke, he found something much more interesting than their poking and prodding and babbling- on the other table was a mechanical arm and the holographic charts above it showed something that didn’t look like _him_ , but like _them_. Unusual. He had only ever seen beings with fur and scales, much smaller than they were, here. He didn’t realize they did things to their own.

And as this new bit of information danced in his head, his curiosity built up until finally, he was unable to avoid the urge to speak, “What is that?”

They froze with their hands on him wherever they had left them, eyes following his to the mechanical arm on the table. The silence that settled over the room became thick and suffocating, only to be broken up by them moving on as if he’d never said anything. Now a new word was being thrown around but it wasn’t _for_ him. He knew because they spoke it in a frightened tone instead of the superior tone they used when discussing him.

Thanos, Thanos, Thanos….

“What is Thanos?” He asked, squirming under their hands. He could only be so quiet for so long, and he already knew they’d never explain what they planned to do to him or what any of the procedures were or why they took so many measurements. But maybe this they would talk about. Maybe he could learn something he could really and truly use, and it would seem innocent in comparison to questioning his own fate.

And then one of them made a face and said two words he knew very well, “Sedate it.”

He tried to fight the needle- he always did- but in the end, it always entered his skin, and he always slept, but somewhere in his unconscious stupor, he caught snippets of a conversation.

“Do you think Thanos will be pleased with our work?”

“If I can’t defeat my sister with this, you’ll hear from me before you hear from my father.”

He hoarded that information too, even if it was never really an answer to his question. He liked to know there was someone _they_ feared enough that they would panic if they heard the name. In the days to come, it would bring some small comfort.

 

___

 

There was to be another daughter.

Nebula, as youngest of Thanos’s daughters, was of two minds about the whole thing. 

No benefits came from being the youngest or oldest, though as most of his daughters were older when they were taken and Nebula was only an infant at the time, there was an expectation on her that others did not have. She came easy to mold, and yet she was the hardest to break, because she heard what the other daughters talked about even when they showed no signs of such nostalgia to their Father’s face. She had never had any of that. She knew nothing of her homeworld or her race. She was only Nebula, who lost more fights than she won, always to Gamora. She hated it. All of it. And her hate made her stronger and turned her will to something strong and impenetrable.

_You are younger, Nebula. Younger and raised only to fight for me. Why aren’t you her equal?_

She never had an answer, and even if Gamora was the cause of her unending pain, at least she never had the gall to speak to her when they weren’t in training. The other daughters all mocked her. She was an easy target until she wasn’t, and she’d killed several of Thanos’s own daughters for daring to pick fights with her.

That always made Daddy proud.

But if he received a _new_ daughter then she would have someone to shape and mold her own way. She could teach this new little brat the unending pain that Gamora had taught her- the desperate, clawing need for companionship and sisterhood that would always be out of reach. She would fight her in combat and never once relent until she’d made someone even more miserable than her.

And maybe then she’d find relief. 

However, even in her black pit of a heart that beat with a rhythm that was purely mechanical these days, she didn’t know if she could stomach watching another little girl become a weapon. It wasn’t her choice, however. She hadn’t been sent to that abysmal, barbarian planet- Ronan had. It was a test of his loyalty to Thanos to do him a simple favor. 

He only had to bring back one girl. 

Nebula found him in the middle of the village he’d destroyed with bodies all around him. There were men and women in a hunting party that would return to find their families slaughtered, and Ronan would be there to meet them. By then Nebula would be long gone- she only came to collect his dues.

There was a girl at his feet, barely a teenager, with her skull caved in from his warhammer. Her body was marked by several dark red scars depicting imagery that Nebula couldn’t place. She looked like a warrior in the guise of a child. 

She looked like she fought back.

“Was this the girl?” Nebula asked, coldly. Seeing the Kree Accuser looking so utterly unapologetic for his actions, she scowled and snapped louder, “Was it?”

“Thanos can have his share of girls on other worlds,” was Ronan’s stoic response. “This one fought.”

Nebula scoffed. “A Kree Accuser, brought to his knees by a little girl?”

His pale blue eyes lit on her and she narrowed hers. If they fought, she had little doubt who would win- she was not blessed with the skill of an Accuser, nor had she fought wars- but death was not a stranger that Nebula wished to stay clear of. If she died, she’d prefer to die because of something on her own terms. “She attempted to stab me in the back.”

That brought a smirk to her lips. “That’s not my problem. Daddy’s going to be pissed.” She lowered her gaze to the dead girl and schooled her expression before it became… _sympathetic_. “It’s a shame. She probably would’ve been a better asset than you’re turning out to be.”

Ronan clearly knew he was on thin ice, because even though she could feel the full weight of his judgment and his desire to make her face it, he never laid so much of a hand on her as she turned her back. Good for him.

As she boarded her ship, she couldn’t help but think maybe that desert-dwelling, scarred girl who had the gall to try and stab an Accuser from behind lucked out by dying. She would never be broken now, and Ronan would always carry the insult, even if he denied it.

 

\----

 

Despite what people said about their literal-mindedness (was it such a crime to say _exactly_ what you meant?), their people were not a primitive, simple race. They just had different priorities- they valued tradition over progress; their wars were fought over things more honorable than politics; family was everything. They needed nothing but these things, and any attempt to convert them otherwise was met with scoffs at best, and violence at worst.

But their planet still, occasionally, found visitors- usually people who came to seek refuge from the rest of the galactic society and live among simpler things. Drax had seen many of these people come and go since his youth, and the elders always treated these newcomers with respect until they proved themselves dishonorable (and then there was usually a game of making them apologize, involving a lot of gruesome dismemberment). That meant that when one approached him as he returned from a hunt and asked to be led to the village, he gave the man the benefit of the doubt, despite his hooded cloak.

“What brings you here?” He asked the stranger, who had not yet bothered to introduce himself. 

“It’s a very simple matter,” the man began, speaking in a deep voice without a hint of irony and humor in it. Drax would remember that about him later- he seemed a man who always spoke what he meant, instead of these people who came here and spoke in riddles and aphorisms and metaphor. “I am here to find a wedding gift.”

Drax laughed, his voice booming. “This is an odd place to come for a wedding gift, my friend! Your bride must have good taste.”

“She is a collector of rare weaponry,” he went on, removing his hood to reveal his green skin that labeled him as a Zen-Whoberis. “I know it is much to ask- you value your weapons as you value those tattoos on your body. I could never ask to buy one- only pour my heart and soul into one I made myself.” 

Drax tilted his head up, looking the man over. He was lithe and a bit pretentious-looking, and struck him as more of a diplomat than a warrior, but his spirit was strong, and he spoke of his desires with such conviction that there was no reason to suspect ill intention. “There are rituals involved. I can teach them to you, but it will take a month to complete. This isn’t a process that can be rushed.”

“I knew that when I took this journey,” the Zen-Whoberis replied. 

“Then you will have a seat at my family’s table tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll begin.”

Over the next month, Drax and the Zen-Whoberis (who deigned to not give his name for personal reasons- Drax suspected he was not meant to be here and was worried of word getting out, since his people were known for their peaceful nature, which didn't beget supping with "barbarian" races) worked tirelessly through the rituals associated to building a weapon that would represent his entire spirit so that he could give it to his future wife. It was a shame, Drax noted, that it would merely be kept in a collection, rather than used. 

“Perhaps I’ll talk her into it,” he had replied at one point as he worked. "Who knows what might change on Zen-Whoberi in the coming years?"

At the end of the month, the man said his goodbyes with a dagger wrapped gently in a blanket- a gift from Drax’s mother that she said, with a knowing twinkle in her blue eyes, was for the child of his union. He embraced her as a son would, and then returned to his ship, while the entire village who had encouraged him through this process watched and bid him farewell.

Not long after, news came about the genocide of the Zen-Whoberi people at the hands of Thanos. Though they didn’t know the man’s name or the name of his intended or anything other than he was a man who lived alongside them, who loved a woman strongly enough to forge a weapon in the manner of their people, so that she might wield his heart, rather than him wielding his own, they mourned him as they would a fallen brother.

 

\---

 

When assassinating someone on Thanos’s orders, they were allowed to take spoils of their victories. Of course, there was always the matter of the other daughters stealing those spoils if they were trinkets or valuables. They were all desperate for the normalcy of objects to possess and not all of them were sent on missions that gave them permission to loot. Gamora had defended her personal treasures from many a thief.

And she was tired of it.

The man she had been sent to kill had a number of interesting objects in his study. She left his body to cool on the floor, blood staining the carpet as it seeped from the gash she left in his throat. She could stuff a dozen or so useless little objects into her pockets to carry home and pretend were gifts from her real father, because she wasn’t yet broken enough to ignore the flights of fancy that young girls often have.

But what caught her attention most wasn’t the expensive objects, but the potted plant in the corner. 

It was taller than her with leaves the size of her head, and it was clearly suffering in this room, even with sunlight pouring through the window and an automated system that distributed food and water as needed. It needed room to grow, and if left here, it would surely die.

It was an impulsive, split-second decision (and a dangerous one, at that), but Gamora quickly severed the connection between the pot and its feeding system and hefted the plant in her arms. It was awkward exiting the building with such a heavy burden, but she considered it an additional challenge to a simple mission she could perform now in her sleep. Once she arrived at the compound, she didn’t go straight to the teleporter to give her report in the Sanctuary, but rather ventured into the woods where the daughters ran sprints over obstacles to better themselves. Gamora knew of a clearing there that had always been her private, special haven, and it was here, armed with only her knife, that she dug out a hole deep enough to plant the little tree.

She delivered her report to Thanos with mud-caked hands and knees and was deeply proud of it. Thanos would have never allowed her to keep a plant- to care for something living, even something as simple as that, would be inviting compassion, which a Daughter of Thanos didn’t need. By keeping that tree, she was openly defying him and flaunting the badges of her victory in his face. When asked, she told him she’d gone for a run and one of the other girls tripped her. She knew this could potentially cause backlash for that girl, but she couldn’t be bothered with thinking about it. Being Thanos’s favorite wasn’t all that everyone believed it to be, but it had one advantage- he believed everything she said without question.

And because of that, she was allowed to nurture something, rather than destroy it. It kept her grounded, even during the worst of the torment meant to break her down. Even if she could never truly wash the blood from her hands or be anything other than self-serving, at least she had one thing _alive_ that depended on her and thrived because of her. It was so simple, and yet… It was enough.

 

\----

 

The slavers had stopped on this planet to rest. It was out of the way and out of sight. He had heard them talking about Nova Corps following their trail, but that seemed like too much to hope for. He had been traveling with these marauders for too many cycles already. He was only still here because he hadn’t had a chance to run.

But the slavers were asleep and dead-drunk now, and he could easily slip his bonds to see what this planet had to offer. It was a lush land, unspoiled. A good land to put down roots in if it had people on it- he liked people. He didn’t want to be anywhere he had to be alone. 

He had walked several miles away from the camp before he found the site of a massacre- the bodies laid out in droves with eyes wide with pain as if they had died in agony. They were all light-skinned with antenna and black eyes. Some of them looked more humanoid, while others more insectoid, but it was clear they were all variations on the same species.

And something had killed them. Brutally and without mercy.

He stepped gently through the carnage, a deep, sorrowful sound echoing from deep within him- a sound of mourning for a people who might have otherwise gone unmourned. Something crunched underfoot, interrupting his dirge and he stepped back to see a dead plant of a like he had never seen before. It was a closed bud, graying as it died, and its leaves were opalescent, though rapidly losing their sheen and when he leaned down to brush against them, they dissolved under his touch. Whatever it was, it had been yanked out by its roots and left to decay with the rest.

He mourned it too, if only because it seemed fair. Someone had taken all the beauty from this village, including the plants. 

What really broke him was the sight of the incubators set into the ground that must have once been filled with young- now a gory sight that caused him to draw back violently and roar in sorrowful rage. He wished he could find the one responsible. He wished he could destroy that person. 

But it was a fool’s dream- one that would do him no good to linger on. Soon, the slavers would find him, and drag him back and they will find stronger bonds to hold him this time. What time and freedom he had should be more productively spent.

So he grew flowers over the village and sang a mourning song until dawn broke. He could not run away and stay here as he had hoped he might, but he would make sure that his time on this world was well-spent. Before he returned to the camp to face the next bout of unpleasantness the slavers could dredge up for a giant tree with a limited vocabulary (that they could understand, anyway), he spoke gently to the earth so that it would invite their bodies into itself and embrace them, telling their souls that someone had mourned them. Someone had cared that they died. 

Someone had wished they could do more.

 

\----

 

She was very young when Ego first called her to him to show her a terrified child and asked her, politely, if she would calm him. She obeyed without question, because Ego was always kind and had taken her in when he didn’t have to. Besides, if this child wasn’t scared, then perhaps he could play with her. She was so lonely here…

Eventually, with her influence, her new friend became a playmate, and Ego watched over them, encouraging his son (yes, this child was _his son_ , not just a playmate, but someone she must respect as she respects Ego!) to _draw upon the light_ and use it in their games. Her friend became very discouraged when he couldn’t do it.

“It’s all right,” Mantis smiled, taking his hand, and easing the anguish away. “I can’t use the light either.”

That seemed to ease his mind, but Ego only looked crestfallen and disappointed. The next day, she couldn’t find her friend at all, and when asked about it, Ego had only said that there would be another soon.

And there was another. And another. And another. And they all heard the same encouragement from their father (“draw upon the light!”) and were all unable to do it as Ego could. Not long after, they would disappear. It became a tragic ritual that Mantis had learned to accept, but she couldn’t help but be excited every time a new child arrived- maybe they would be able to use the light like Ego. Maybe they would stay with the two of them, and then neither she nor Ego would be lonely.

She never knew what happened to the children who went missing until one day Ego called for her to come to the sub-level of his castle with him and his latest child- a daughter, who was sniffling and crying over not being able to summon the light. Mantis consoled her without being asked. She was consoling her right up through Ego snuffing her life out as effortlessly and painlessly as snuffing out a match.

Only then did she understand what was happening. 

And she could do nothing.

The next time a child was due, Mantis overheard Ego having a conversation over the holo with a man she’d seen bring children here before. Never before had she felt so much anger from her master- it radiated off the walls and overwhelmed her so much, she had to stop gripping the door she was peeking through, lest she be spotted. 

But she understood the reason for Ego’s anger- there would be no child today. That meant this one had a chance to be worth more than another body underneath Ego’s castle. This one might be spared. She would never voice this to her master, of course- she would always be loyal to him, because she owed so much of her life to him- but it comforted her a little to know that there would be a little less blood on her hands.

There was a limit to how much she could dream up, despite Ego being limitless in what _he_ could imagine, but she tried very hard to form a comforting image of the boy who got away to hold against her heart every time she watched helplessly as another child failed and was cut down. It helped somewhat, she supposed, to know he was out there, hopefully living his best life. Sometimes she even imagined him coming here to save her, but those thoughts were silly and quickly dismissed.

Not because she wouldn't dream of being rescued from the only life she ever had (though that played a part in it) or that she didn't deserve to be rescued from something she dared not challenge herself (also a major part), but because she never ever wanted that boy to come here. If he wanted to survive, he needed to stay away.


End file.
